John Tranter (Balmain, Australia): "Pronto"

I.
No joy in this one, Bob. Would you like to be
summoned for one little blot on the record,
by a marshal? And create the indictment
today, that will be used for a demo
tomorrow? If you do that, my old friend,
the problem seems to be saying, the data
will go on the skids— it could be a fun contest,
held in a field near the Boston area.

Now, I don’t want you to get the idea that
finding a guitar has anything to do with it.
Just dish it up like the boss wants, though,
if you deal with the CIA— Hi, I’m Bob.
Can’t talk now. Down in the park,
listening to guitars, single mothers—

II.
Do they need to show more, to agree to put
the data mining double digits to use?
They blame a hotel trustee, ten to one.
A bang on the gong and he’s off to Brooklyn,
with a call for a song-set from Tony, sliding to CNN,
sun blinding him, trouble in the upper airway,
cost of sales data ballooning— he cannot operate.
It is the “FM in a Domain Name System” hazard.

A haphazard collapse they can share with the boss,
who already believes that we should solve it—
that must be what the publishers want—
two weeks’ extra pay, he would say that to keep me,
but I’m getting used to his lies. Sufficient onto the day
are its many small evils— Betty, comment on that, pronto.

© John Tranter 2005